William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

could not do the great good works which I already know of you, were you not. Onward!” He thrust his hand out, holding it high. “We must go forward, and we shall overcome.” And he brushed past her and went on down the stairs with a spring in his step.
    Hester swore under her breath, words she would have been ashamed to use aloud, and returned the way she had come.
    In the evening Hester sat restlessly fiddling with mending which did not really need to be done. Martha attended to suchthings and left little from one week to the next. But she could not keep her mind on mending, and sitting idle was even worse.
    There was a knock on the door.
    “Come in,” she said with relief.
    Martha entered and closed the door behind her. She looked tired and dispirited.
    “Have you time to sit down?” Hester invited. She set her sewing aside. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
    Martha smiled. “I’ll get it. I’m sure you would like one too, wouldn’t you?”
    “Thank you,” Hester accepted. “Yes, I really would.”
    Martha held out a letter. “This came for you in the last post.”
    “Oh!” Hester took it with pleasure. It was written in Lady Callandra Daviot’s hand and postmarked from Fort William, in the north of Scotland. “Oh, good!”
    “A friend?” Martha said with a smile. “I’ll fetch the tea. Would you like some shortbread as well?”
    “Yes, please,” Hester accepted, and the moment after Martha had gone, she tore open the letter and read:
    My dear Hester,
    What a marvelous country! I had never imagined I would enjoy myself so much. I have the undeniable urge to try painting again. It should all be done on wet paper, I think, to catch the softness of the colors and the way the light strikes the water. Yesterday I came back from the Isle of Skye. The Cuillin Mountains are so beautiful they make me ache inside because the moment I look away I know I shall need to see them again. And I cannot spend the rest of my life standing on the spot staring at shifting sunlight and mist and the shadows across the sea.
    Today I am resting and doing very little, except writing to friends, of whom you and William are the only ones who might begin to understand how I feel, and therefore the only ones in which I shall have pleasure, rather than the mereknowledge of duty performed. What slaves we are to conscience! I wonder how much the postman carries that is no more than obligation satisfied?
    How are you? Have you any cases which you care about intensely? Or are you nursing bored old ladies with the vapors, and nothing to do with their time and money but make somebody else run around after them, and irascible colonels with gout whose only cure would be to abstain from the Port and Stilton, and who will never do that?
    Have you seen William lately? I missed his last case of real interest. Of course, he told me about it afterwards, but that is hardly the same thing. He is doing so well recently that he does not need my occasional financial intervention—which of course pleases me immensely. I wish him to succeed. Of course I do. My support was only intended to be temporary, or I know he would not have accepted it. Men are very odd when it comes to money—unless, of course, they marry it. In which case they consider it theirs by right, as indeed it is by law.
    However, I do miss the excitement of being with you, the urgency of learning the truth about some violence in secret, even though it may in the end prove to be tragic. I am not used to drifting on the surface of life, and I find the calm of it sometimes drives me into a terrible state of loneliness, as if the reality were passing me by. Am I sitting behind a window observing the world, separated by impenetrable glass?
    Hester read more description of the majestic and lyrical beauty of the Highlands, but her mind was more fully tuned to the emotions which underlay it, and her own memories of the warmth of Callandra’s friendship—and the honesty. In a sense, Callandra had replaced the family she was no longer close to, and she looked forward to her return.
    Martha came back with a tray of tea and a rather large plate of fresh shortbread from the kitchen. She set it down and poured for both of them.
    Hester put the letter aside.
    Martha held her cup, waiting till it should cool sufficiently to sip. She was frowning and obviously troubled.
    Hester guessed. “Did Mr. Sheldon say anything to Mrs. Sheldon about reading Indian history?” she asked. “I